


In Suspension

by Majela



Series: Music [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Post HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majela/pseuds/Majela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was, however, one homeless person Sherlock actually wanted John to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Suspension

John was sat in his chair at 221B, Laphroaig in one hand, phone in the other. Sherlock had gone out, dressed in those floppy grey sweats and scuffed trainers. He knew it wasn't for a late night jog. Sherlock was working a case, on a reconnaissance mission with his homeless network. This was Homeless Holmes, blending in. 

Before, it could have meant something different, but since John moved back in and made Sherlock swear never to touch the drugs - no not ever, not if he wanted John to stay – well, there was some trust that needed to be rebuilt. God knows John was doing his part.

He returned to Baker Street six months ago, when Mary made him choose. She was moving to France with their daughter, Victoria. As an intelligence agent, Mary had never really considered motherhood. It was all fine to lead a thrilling, dangerous existence when yours was the only life in the balance; but now, what right did they have to risk their daughter’s future? Solving crimes, chasing criminals ...hardly a domestic lifestyle. And even though Mary had tried to turn her life around, the hard truth of it was they were not safe. Magnussen had sources, those sources were still alive, and there was a bounty on her head. For what, she would not say.

There were so many things Mary hadn’t told John, even now, it still staggered him.

She had said it was not her intention to kill Magnussen that night. John could intuit the rest. Interrogation at gunpoint, force Magnussen to reveal his sources, hunt them all down. That was Mary’s plan, until Sherlock came bumbling in.

John could tell she was still bitter. Mary had never thanked Sherlock for his sacrifice. He was relieved she did not move back to America, that would be too far. France was only a two and a half hour train ride away.

John was working on his trust issues, trusting Sherlock. He was trying very hard.

He understood the value of Sherlock’s homeless network, his “eyes and ears on the street”, although John rarely met any of them. Many were hardwired against authority, and John was a liability in that regard. He still carried himself like a soldier, arms arrowed to the pavement, eyes scanning for threats. Therefore he did not take it personally when Sherlock did not invite him along.

There was, however, one homeless person Sherlock actually wanted John to meet.

The night Sherlock suggested Angelo’s for dinner, John did not see her, at first. He was poking at his pasta while mentally digesting the particulars of an unusual medical case. That morning, a patient had presented himself to Dr. Watson with an extremely odiferous case of bad breath. Reeking of garlic, the patient insisted he had consumed none. He suspected his fiancee was poisoning him, and the good doctor was not so sure he was wrong. In fact, John was finding it difficult to enjoy his  _aglio e olio_ . Sherlock, as usual, had barely touched his _bolognese_ , but his attention was elsewhere. He was staring at the young woman singing torch songs at the back of the restaurant. That was remarkable, a bit. John did not know Sherlock liked jazz.

When John pushed his plate away half-finished, Sherlock immediately turned his attention back to his flatmate. Problem ? John explained his sudden distaste for garlic. He went over the patient’s particulars, observable symptoms, medical history. Technically he should not, as he was breaching patient confidentiality, though he never revealed names. John was willing to blur the line, however, because this was one area where he felt on somewhat equal intellectual footing with Sherlock. They had both studied poisons and their effects on the human body; John in medical school, Sherlock in his spare time. Sherlock had even experimented on himself, preferring first hand knowledge to textbook, but when John moved back in Sherlock quietly disposed of the odd little bottles in the medicine cabinet, and spared them both the lecture.

Sherlock mulled over the symptoms, and John could not help but smile. He would never be as smart as Sherlock Holmes. Which was fine, by the way, John was a modest man. He could not deny, however, the tiny swell of pride he felt whenever Sherlock showed respect for his medical talents, which he did whenever they discussed John's cases. John could share anything with Sherlock. No medical procedure was too obscure, no symptom too revolting. In fact, the more graphic the detail, the brighter Sherlock's eyes seemed to gleam. John was grateful he could give this to Sherlock, this intellectual sustenance.

Unfortunately, a patient with garlic breath was not a great puzzle, and Sherlock quickly deduced arsenic poisoning.

They were discussing motives when the woman approached their table. She was in her early twenties, auburn hair curled precisely about her heart shaped face. Dressed in a simple green silk sheath dress, she could pass for sophisticated if one did not look too closely at her shoes. John noted the scuffs on the sides of her patent black pumps, the rubber tip missing from one heel, the unsyncopated click it made on the hardwood floor as she approached their table.  Any attempt at elegance, however, was cast aside when she threw her arms around Sherlock Holmes and informed him excitedly that Angelo had hired her for the whole month. She had hugged Sherlock several times before he finally introduced her to John. Her name was Billie. She froze for a moment before shaking John’s hand, then gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek, and sidewinded her way through the tables back to her microphone.

John's astonishment at this intimacy was only slightly alleviated by Sherlock's explanation that Billie was a member of his homeless network. She sang for money in the tube stations, had helped him with a few cases. Billie had an exceptional voice, but could not afford music school. Sherlock, who had taught himself the violin by age seven, advised her she did not require vocal lessons to pursue a singing career, all she needed was a proper stage. Angelo had a piano and jazz night every Thursday. Angelo agreed to give her a chance, of course, anything for Sherlock.

The next Thursday, Sherlock wanted to return to Angelo’s restaurant, and even offered to pick up the tab. Billie was singing, of course. John noticed she kept looking over at Sherlock, and smiling. It was a bit unnerving.

By the third Thursday, John was convinced that Sherlock had a thing for this girl. But, _not really my area,_ isn’t that what he’d said ? John thought she had a lovely voice, but was thrown by her affection towards his flatmate. He understood the lure of the human voice, the effect that Sherlock’s voice had on him sometimes was alarming. What was it that kept Sherlock coming back ? 

One song Billie sang with such heartbreaking longing that everyone’s forks hovered over their plates, stilled by her voice. John recognized it, this was the one where she always glanced over to Sherlock, seeking…what ?

 

_In suspension_

_Walking side by side_

_All the words unspoken_

_All those things left unsaid_

_Swirling around us_

_Like leaves_

_On a fall sidewalk_

_In suspense_

_I turn to you_

_To ask you_

_What would you do_

_If I kissed you ?_

_Would you turn away ?_

_What would you say ?_

_Maybe nothing at all_

_Please call my bluff_

_I’ve had enough_

_Of this dancing around_

_I want you_

_I need you_

_I’ll love you_

_Always_

 

John observed that Sherlock never spoke to him when Billie sang this particular song. He would scan for emotion but Sherlock glanced away whenever he looked. He was unreadable.

Billie did not come to their table after, had not since that first Thursday night. Nor did Sherlock seem inclined to speak with her, he just paid the bill and then he and John walked back to their flat. Sherlock was quiet. That was normal, but… John had a nagging feeling he was missing something.

The following Monday, by chance, he bumped into Billie at the chip shop. John took the opportunity to curve the conversation around to how she knew Sherlock. She described how they met at the tube station; she was singing for rent money, he needed help with a case. Sherlock had asked her to text him if she saw a man carrying a cane with a blue anchor tattoo on his right hand. Nothing more. No romantic interest , just a favor for a favor.

But that one song, so intimate, the way she looked at Sherlock …

“That song, you know” – John hummed a few bars - “It’s lovely, what’s it called ?”

Billie blinked. Twice. “Don’t you know ?”

“Er…no. Should I ?”

Billie tilted her head, looked at him quizzically. “It’s called Dear John. Sherlock wrote it.”

John’s heart stopped.

“He joined me at the tube station one day, brought his violin and played it for me. It was so beautiful, I thought…” her cheeks flushed slightly. “ Well, for a second I thought the song was for me, until I saw the title on the sheet music.”

After letting the words swim through him, really listening this time, John finally understood.

_All the words unspoken, all those things left unsaid._

Billie was staring at him. “I'm sorry, I thought you knew. He said it was for a friend, and when he introduced us I figured you must be _the_ John. You didn't seem to like the song, though, you hardly paid attention."

That was why she kept looking at Sherlock. Am I doing it right ? she was asking. Seeking approval.

John remembered to inhale. With his next breath he realized Sherlock had found a way to speak to him, indirectly, through music.

_In suspension._

That was why they kept going back. Sherlock had been waiting for the song to reach John. And now, as the words came crashing down, it took one more heartbeat to figure out why Sherlock had not just told him directly.

It was not just a fear of rejection. Sherlock had allowed space for John to pretend he did not understand. Did not hear. Or if he did hear, to dismiss it as circumstantial evidence. To let them continue on as before. A safe zone.

John tried to imagine how he would proceed under similar circumstances.

The next Thursday, at the end of their song, John leaned over and finally kissed Sherlock.

Angelo applauded loudly.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first AO3 post, any feedback is welcome. 
> 
> Yes there is music to go with the lyrics. If I can figure out how to attach the sheet music, I will attempt an update, and maybe someone with a violin can play it ?


End file.
